Speed of Life

by Carol Weston

  “You and Derek?”

  “Me and Tim! He’s a junior at Horace Mann.”

  “A junior?! Omigod. Your mother would kill you!”

  “That’s why she doesn’t know.”

  “How is your mom anyway?” I wondered if her mom had said anything about my dad.

  “No idea,” Kiki said. “She’s been working late a lot—which works for me.” Kiki laughed.

  I didn’t.

  • • •

  Two hours later, I saw “Re: Lies and Kisses” in my inbox.

  Dear Catlover,

  If I were the pope or your principal, I might say you should always tell the whole truth. But life is complicated, and sometimes, people have reasons for not telling each other everything. I’m not suggesting you lie to your dad! The guilt you feel shows you’re a caring daughter and self-respecting person. I’m just saying I understand. Fortunately, you got home safe, and you don’t sound heartbroken. (Believe me, I know what heartbroken sounds like.) I’m sorry the evening was a disappointment, but you were smart not to let things get out of hand. It’s wise to take your time and trust your gut. And yours sounds trustworthy.

  Kate

  PS No worries. That was your first kiss, not your last kiss.

  • • •

  Right before dinner, I was looking for my cell phone and remembered that I’d left it backstage. “I’m such an idiot,” I muttered.

  “Don’t say that!” Dad said.

  “I’m talking to myself, not you!”

  “I get that. But no one gets to call my daughter an idiot. Not even my daughter.”

  “It’s just that I left my phone at school,” I explained.

  “So let’s go get it. I’ll go with you.” He grabbed his jacket. “I have something I want to tell you anyway.”

  “Dad, you can’t go to school with me!” I said, alarmed. “I’m fourteen!” I shot out the door. Besides, I did not want to hear about his evenings with Lan, the Siren of Saigon Sun!

  It was enough that I’d noticed a new Playbill in the blue-and-white bowl on our sideboard. That bowl used to overflow with programs of plays and musicals that Mom and Dad went to on and off Broadway. For almost a year, the bowl had been empty. Was it going to start filling up again?

  • • •

  Abuelo arrived from Segovia for spring break just in time for our production of Guys and Dolls. He’s five foot six, and in Spain, he looks short, but in America, he looks extra short. Like an elf with bushy eyebrows and twinkly eyes.

  Abuelo, Dad, and I sat down to watch the show, and Abuelo complimented my backdrop for the scene when Sky Masterson takes Sarah Brown to Havana. I told him I’d spent hours painting the diner, with its turquoise booths, pink swivel stools, and tin foil stars.

  “¿Pero, Sofía, por qué no estás cantando?”

  I whispered that I wasn’t singing because set design was okay. I didn’t add that lately I hadn’t even been singing in the shower.

  We watched, and I couldn’t help but think that Natalie was a good Adelaide, but I might have sung “A Person Can Develop a Cold” with more oomph. And Madison was an okay Sarah, but I would have sung “I’ve Never Been in Love Before” with more heart.

  Afterward, Abuelo and Dad waited while I went to tell my friends how great they were. They all looked so happy and proud, and I tried not to feel jealous, but the truth was, I didn’t miss just the singing—I missed the afterglow too. The hugs and congratulations. As if reading my mind, Natalie said my set was “awesome.”

  Should I have pushed myself to audition? Possibly. But it’s not like I could charge myself up like a cell phone—stay still and then, hours later, be good as new, one hundred percent.

  The next day, Abuelo set up a worktable in our building’s basement and taught me how to hold a hammer and use a screw gun and coping saw. He even showed me how he made his Christmas crèche pieces, cutting curves, carving with a chisel, smoothing edges with a file. It felt good to sit by him and learn a new skill.

  We also did touristy things. One day, we walked across the Brooklyn Bridge. One evening, we saw a musical and Dad met us afterward at a revolving restaurant above Times Square.

  Abuelo said that being surrounded by skyscrapers was like being in a forest of buildings. “A María, le encantaba New York.”

  I translated: “Maria loved New York.”

  “She did,” Dad agreed. “She was happy as a clam.”

  “A clom?” Abuelo looked at me.

  I explained that it was like saying feliz como una perdiz, feliz como un lombriz, happy as a partridge, happy as a worm. And I wondered if it was easier to be happy if you were a clam or bird or worm.

  I missed Mom at odd times now. During conversations about Spanish expressions. Or when the buzz of my alarm woke me up instead of her “Buenos días.” Even at the grocery store when Dad didn’t buy Marcona almonds—or stop me from buying gummy bears.

  It had been nearly a year since I’d phoned Abuelo to tell him the news. This week, he told me that that day was the saddest of his life.

  Now once again, I knew something before my grandfather did: Dad was dating. I didn’t know much else, and Dad had not asked me to translate anything about it. Was his relationship with the woman—Lan?—too new? Was his relationship with Abuelo too old? Whatever the reason, I kept Dad’s news to myself. So when Abuelo flew back to Spain, he had no idea how fast things were changing in New York.

  • • •

  “Can I come in?” Dad said a few days later.

  “I’m doing my Latin.”

  He came in anyway. I was in my pajamas, and Pepper was on my desk under the lamplight, licking himself. Dad took off his glasses and rubbed them with his soft shirt and said, “Listen, Sof, as you know, I’ve been seeing someone.”

  Someone? Why didn’t he just say Lan?

  “Dad, I don’t want to know!” I said, and Pepper looked at me, alarmed. He leaped off the desk and darted under the bed.

  “No, I actually think you might because—”

  Because what? Because then Kiki and I could share a bunk bed? “Dad, you’re wrong!”

  “But, honey, I think—”

  “Dad, I—”

  “Sof, please give me a chance—”

  “Dad, how can I make it clearer? I don’t want to hear about it, okay?”

  “Okay, okay.” He backed out of my room.

  “Close the door until it clicks!” I said.

  He did, and I tried not to cry.

  I got on the floor, peeked under the bed, and reached for Pepper. He was hiding next to a dusty stack of picture books and childhood board games. “Come,” I pleaded, my arms outstretched. But Pepper wouldn’t budge.

  • • •

  I wished I could talk to Dr. Goldbrook, our middle school counselor. Some girls didn’t want to confide in Dr. G because they said she was a “stranger.” I didn’t want to because she was a neighbor and family friend.

  As a toddler in Halsey Tower, I’d been “famous” for my singing. Buckled up in my stroller, I sang nursery songs in the lobby and mailroom and elevator. Apparently, I could carry a tune while doing hand motions to “Itsy Bitsy Spider” and “The Wheels on the Bus.”

  Mom said I made the grown-ups laugh, and Dr. G called me “Little Songbird.”

  So what was I supposed to do now? Knock on Dr. G’s door and say I’d become a “Silent Songbird”?

  I didn’t know where else to turn.

  • • •

  Dear Kate,

  My father met someone. I still can’t believe my mom is dead. Crocuses are popping up, buds are on the trees, squirrels are running around, and I’m still sad. It’s hard to think about my dad with another woman, like kissing her and stuff. Please don’t tell me to talk to my school counselor because I can’t. I just can’t. />
  The first anniversary of the day my mom died is coming, and I don’t want to meet his girlfriend or special friend or Mystery Woman before then. I’m not in a rush to meet her afterward either!

  I guess I don’t want to share my dad. He’s the only parent I have left.

  Just because he likes her, do I have to?

  I hope you don’t think less of me. I want my dad to be happy, but can’t he wait a little? My BFF disappears when she starts going out with someone, but I never thought my dad would.

  Yours truly,

  Sofia

  For once, I reread my email before hitting Send. I could have revised it, but it wasn’t a take-home essay, and it was honest. The only thing I decided to take out was my name. I changed “Sofia” to “Still Not Over My Mom.” I was surprised I’d originally typed my real name, but maybe I was beginning to feel like Dear Kate was a real friend.

  Which was insane.

  I didn’t want to become one of those girls who makes “friends” online or who fall for guys who claim they’re rock stars when they’re actually serial killers.

  At least Dear Kate wasn’t a total stranger. I’d met her, sort of.

  I picked up To Kill A Mockingbird so I’d stop staring at my non-bouncing icon. I couldn’t believe my English teacher was giving us a quiz the first day back after vacation. I also couldn’t believe it was 11:00 p.m. and Dad still wasn’t home. When he and Mom used to go out, they always came back before I went to bed. But his so-called girlfriend couldn’t care less about me. Maybe Dad cared less than he used to too? Before he’d left, he’d told me he’d be late, saying, “Try to understand: I saw her only once this week!”

  Try to understand, I wanted to say, I wish you weren’t seeing her at all!

  I put on my pajamas, grabbed Pepper, and kept reading until I got to the last page. I was sorry when the book ended. I liked the last scene, when Atticus tucks Scout in and says most people are very nice, once you get to know them.

  Would I have to get to know Dad’s Mystery Woman? Would I think she was “very nice”? And if it wasn’t Lan, who was it? Some widow from grief group?

  I hated going to sleep in an empty apartment, but what choice did I have? I reached for Panther, Tigger-Tiger, and Yertle and wondered if other girls my age still slept with their stuffies. Impulsively, I wrote Dear Kate one more email. The subject was “Quick Dumb Question.” I asked: “Is there an appropriate age for outgrowing stuffed animals?”

  I pressed Send, then wanted to kick myself.

  On a one to ten Scale of Pathetic-ness, I was a twenty-five.

  • • •

  When I poured out my heart, it usually felt good to write everything down, but then, unless I heard back right away, I’d start to feel worse. Embarrassed and exposed.

  The next morning, my inbox remained empty. Laptops and cell phones weren’t allowed in school, so after a fast lunch of Moroccan tagine with couscous (Halsey “chefs” were big on inventive menus—it was part of our “culinary education”), I went to the library to use a school computer. I made sure I was alone, then signed on, hoping for a response.

  And there it was:

  Dear Still Not Over My Mom,

  Of course I don’t think less of you. You miss your mom, which shows how close you two were and how big your heart is. In fact, it would be surprising if you didn’t feel conflicted about your dad’s new relationship. I don’t think you will ever truly get “over” your mother’s death, but you’ve already done the difficult job of managing without her for almost a year. That was not easy! Give yourself some credit!

  How are you going to mark the anniversary? You could play her favorite music, invite friends to share memories, or plant a rose bush in your yard.

  And after that? You will never ever forget your mom, but I think you will find the strength to meet your dad’s new friend if it’s important to him. You can also tell your dad that you just aren’t quite ready.

  Do you have to like her? No. But it’s easier when everyone gets along. So try to be open-minded, okay?

  K

  PS As for outgrowing stuffed animals, no set age, no worries! And btw, I get more mail than you can imagine, and there’s no such thing as a dumb question.

  That evening, while setting the table, I looked at Dad and, just to be polite, asked, “Did you have fun last night?” I’d seen a new program in the culture bowl: Orpheus Chamber Orchestra at Carnegie Hall.

  He poked at some marinating chicken thighs. “I did.”

  I hoped he wouldn’t say anything else. Not one single word.

  “Sofia, I’m eager for you to meet her. Maybe this weekend?”

  Meet her? Then it wasn’t Lan?

  “I’m not quite ready,” I replied, surprised to hear myself sounding so definite. I remembered when Dad had told me that I was born a week after Mom’s due date and Mom had had to be induced. “Why?” I’d asked.

  “You weren’t quite ready,” he had said.

  I looked up and added, “Maybe after April 7.”

  “Fair enough,” he said. “Hey, did you ever read that book I gave you, Girls’ Guide?”

  “Parts of it,” I said and didn’t add that I’d read and reread one section called “When Loved Ones Die.” It had made me feel less alone and had reminded me that I wasn’t the only girl in the world who seemed to be grieving in slow motion.

  • • •

  I heard a crash, and Pepper came tearing out of the living room. I got up and saw that he’d knocked down a photo of Mom, Dad, and me. The three of us were face up behind cracked glass.

  I tried not to feel spooked, but I couldn’t help it: my family was broken. I was too.

  I wanted to call Kiki or Natalie, but even if they said all the right things, they were things they’d said before: “It must be hard.” “Your mom was so nice.” “I wish I knew what to say.”

  I opened my laptop. Dear Kate would know what to say. She might be busy writing other girls—or hanging out with her husband and her own girl—but I needed to talk, so I typed.

  Dear Kate,

  My cat just broke a family photo, and it felt like a sign or omen. Like, maybe I should accept that the past is past and agree to meet my dad’s girlfriend, even though I want to hate her guts. Do you believe in signs?

  Lost Not Found

  The response was almost immediate.

  Dear LNF,

  I don’t believe in signs, but I do believe in accepting what you cannot change. Your first family will always be safe and unbroken inside you. No cat or person can touch that. But it’s good if you are willing to meet the girlfriend. Don’t think of it as being disloyal to your mom but as being supportive of your dad. Are there any plusses to his having a girlfriend?

  And do you think your mom would want him—and you—to be happy?

  K

  Was there a plus side to Dad having a girlfriend? I no longer felt sorry for him. And he wasn’t bugging me as much about hanging up towels—but maybe I’d gotten better at that? He was also humming a lot—was this a plus or a minus?

  Dad and I still didn’t talk much, but maybe that was partly my fault. Mom and I had had an easy closeness. We spoke our own language—literally.

  I decided to think about something else, something fun, like a crush. But I didn’t have a crush. Not Daniel. Not Julian. Not Miles. Nobody.

  Since Dear Kate was online, I decided to send her one last horrendously mortifying question. I was pretty sure of the answer, but I’d noticed something odd, and getting her opinion might calm me down.

  Dear Kate,

  This is extremely embarrassing, but I have a tiny pink pimple with a white tip. It’s like a face pimple but down there. I haven’t had sex (!!), so it can’t be an STI, right?

  The reply came instantly:

  Right.

  W
ell, good.

  It was so handy having Dear Kate just a click away! She was friendly, free, and full of answers. And so many subjects were easier to type about than talk about! It felt good to be able to confide in her online anytime about anything. It was better than in person could ever be. After all, I could never in a million years ask a question like that to someone I’d have to face in real life!

  April

  I wasn’t looking forward to Saturday. But I’d promised Dad that after the one-year anniversary, I’d meet his Mystery Woman.

  April 7 itself was drizzly. Dad had arranged for the Riverside Park Fund to plant a dogwood in Mom’s honor, and now Dad and I took a walk so he could show me the tree in case I “ever wanted to visit it.”

  Visit it? I didn’t want to go near it! I didn’t want there to be a tree! But he and I were standing on the path by the muddy hill on Eighty-Ninth and looking at the dark, shiny sapling.

  It was hard to think of it as “Mom’s tree.”

  A woman in the park called out to us. She was holding hands with a child who was twirling a red umbrella dotted with yellow ducks. Under the umbrella, the child had a baby doll tucked in a sort of Snugli, its plastic head peeking out.

  “Dr. Wolfe!” the woman said. “You might not remember me, but you delivered my little girl!”

  Dad gave his canned answer: “Of course I remember you! And this is my little girl.”

  The woman turned to me and said she was so sorry to hear about my mother. “My niece had her for Spanish years ago. She loved her.”

  I didn’t know what to say. That I loved her too? That I still loved her? I said, “Thank you” and waited for the mother-daughter-babydoll team to go away. I wanted the whole gray day to go away.

  • • •

  At school, I told Kiki I was being forced to meet the Mystery Woman.

  “So there really is an MW?” Kiki asked, a little disappointed.

  “There’s an MW and a daughter,” I said, worry in my voice.

  “That might help.”

  “Doubt it.” I told Kiki we had planned to go to a Korean place downtown for bibimbap, but the daughter had a “commitment,” so instead, Dad and I were going to have to drive all the way to their house in Westchester, almost an hour away.